Please Rip My Throat Out
by Anderida
Summary: A fairy sex curse (never gets old!) leaves Stiles with only a few hours and even fewer options. He knows the decision he has to make, but will Derek be up to the challenge? Post S2. Crude language, talk of suicide and non-con sex.
1. Chapter 1

**Please Rip My Throat Out  
**

 _A fairy sex curse (never gets old!) leaves Stiles with only a few hours and even fewer options. He knows the decision he has to make, but will Derek be up to the challenge?_

 _Timing is fluid but post S2. Erica's dead (forgive me), and Stiles is 19 and knows Derek's history. Derek is still an alpha (the universe demands it)._

 _The subject matter begets crude language. Nothing graphic. Talk of suicide and non-consensual sex._

* * *

 _ **Chapter One**  
_

"I know this is embarrassing for you…"

"Embarrassing? Embarrassing, Derek? Dad slapping Melissa on the butt when he thought Scott and I weren't around; that's embarrassing. But this?"

Stiles leapt up from his end of the couch and crossed the loft space in three loping strides, as if to rapidly distance himself from the whine in his own voice. His arms whipped around him like the blades of a crashed helicopter as he turned to face Derek.

"This? This is _humiliating_. Humiliating and _mortifying_. Oh my god, I can't believe this. This can't be happening."

Then Derek was on his feet too, stepping away from the couch but staying out of Stiles' wingspan. The werewolf stood motionless with his head tipped down, his shoulders turned in, and for a moment Stiles was reminded of a powered-down cyborg, except that Derek's eyes were bright and vital.

"We can find a way to—"

"To what, Derek? Really? You think we can fix this? You think you can go all 'grrr' like usual and this will miraculously resolve itself? Because that—wait… Seriously? You thought you could…what? Strong-arm some poor loser with threats of throat-ripping into sleeping with me?

"Because even if the fairy curse didn't specifically forbid using force or intimidation, there's a word for that Derek and I thought that even you would have enough of a moral compass to balk at that."

Derek growled, his eyes flashing red, adding to the whole cyborg likeness he had going on. Stiles would have flinched if the whole situation wasn't so hugely cringe-worthy in the first place, and if he wasn't wresting internally with some ill-timed thoughts about cyborgs. Or Derek.

"Yeah, yeah, big guy, that's not what you meant, I know. Sorry. Don't gnash your fangs. I didn't mean it. It's just my bitterness talking at the unfairness and cruel irony of it all.

"But honestly, that may have been the only way I had even the remotest chance of losing my virginity tonight – or _any_ night, IMHO – and not only is it repugnant, indefensible and illegal, but it's against the fairies' rules too. Welcome to my life. Just kill me now… although, fair warning, my inherent cynicism may outlive me."

"This is serious, Stiles. You have been cursed by—"

"Fairies. Yes, thank you Captain Obvious. _And in other news today: the moon is round,_ " he mimicked the familiar drawl of a local news anchor. "Uh, well, technically the moon's _elliptical_ , oh, no, it's actually shaped like a lemon with an equatorial bulge on one side so … uh, moving on…

"Yeah, I don't need reminding of that grotesque Tinkerbell wannabe, her hairy cohort of paranoid misanthropists, and how quickly it all went south – taking my lifespan right along with it.

"Holy gremlins, Batman! How could I have known that sarcasm counted as a declaration of war in their tiny psychopathic fae brains? And honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd think they get their kicks from inciting derisive badinage. That's hardly sane. Or fair.

"Sarcasm's my only defence. It's my natural response to terror. So when attacked – even by diminutive trolls with a low insult threshold – it gets deployed instinctively, without fear or favour. It's an equal-opportunities kind of defence mechanism. So really: not my fault, okay."

"Your fault or not, we have to find you someone to—"

"No!" Stiles smacked the air, his palm thrust towards Derek. "Don't say it. It's not happening so don't add to my mortification by spelling it out."

"You can't ignore this, Stiles. This isn't going away. And I can't fight fairies. If this doesn't happen… Your life is on the line here." Derek's eyebrows added an undecipherable sub-text as he spoke.

"Well, duh." Stiles threw his arms out as if he was snapping crumbs from a napkin, but he'd become distracted by the eyebrows and nearly lost his footing with the sudden impetus. "Dammit! Yes, thank you. Deaton made it quite clear what's at stake here – which, you know, is spooky in and of itself, because that guy never usually gives it to you straight, even if open candour would prevent an apocalypse.

"And yeah, this is kind of a personal apocalypse right here, 'cause I'm not gonna be around come breakfast."

"No, we'll find a way round this. We'll—"

"What, Derek? There's only one way out of this and you know it. I need to get laid before dawn or the fairies get to go all Hannibal Lector on my ass… uh, forgive my poor word choice, however accurate that may turn out to be. Yeah, nobody needs that mental image."

Stiles couldn't prevent the shiver that ran through him at that, though he covered quickly with more words. "But yeah, either I find someone willing to sleep with me… No, let me clarify: willing to let me have _sex_ with them, by sun-up – and might I add at this juncture, how super-clichéd that is – or I die at the tiny hands of psychotic Hobbits with worse dental hygiene, and less social graces, than a Komodo dragon."

"Then you find someone to sleep with and—"

"Really? That's what you're going with? How long have you known me, Derek? Two years and some weeks in change, right? And in all that time, have you known me to get lucky? Ever?

"No. Right? I've never had that privilege. And not for lack of effort on my part, let me tell you. But I think my v-card is laminated. In resin. Or chiselled in rock. Either, or. No, likely both. Then encased in diamonds and dropped in a bottomless pit.

"So the chances of me finding a willing lover in the next… Oh holy hell, I don't even know when dawn is. In eight hours? Seven hours? Oh crap, when is it? How long have I got left?"

"Stiles, you have plenty of time to find someone—"

"You've never struck me as stupid, Derek. But you're missing the elephant in the room here. My lack of sex appeal and lack of a willing partner. Uh, two elephants. Whatever.

"Since hitting puberty, there's been no-one interested in _dating_ me, much less having sex with me. I have _no_ chance of finding anyone willing to do so in the few hours remaining to me. I'm screwed! Oh. Yeah, _not_ screwed. I'm going to die and I'm going to die a nineteen-year-old virgin. Oh my god, it sucks to be me."

"We can figure this out. There will be someone—"

"Who, Derek? Who? You know how long I pined over Lydia; she was never interested. None of the girls at school – or guys, for that matter – would even spare me a second glance. Oh, apparently Erica had a thing for me before she took the bite but …"

Stiles looked down at his shoes as he remembered the quiet epileptic and the brash extrovert Erica had become. He noticed how close Derek's boots were now to his own Converse, though he hadn't realised the man had moved, and he took a step back.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to rake over old memories. We all miss her," Stiles told their shoes quietly.

"There are other girls … other people out there…" Derek said, matching Stiles' low tone.

"Again with the unfounded optimism."

Stiles looked up at Derek then and saw that pinched, sour face that others might see as anger, but he knew was bone-aching hurt. Derek, he surmised, was covering his pain at the loss of Erica.

"Look, I'm not getting out of this one, Derek. Years of bitter experience has taught me that. No-one found me attractive enough to even be seen sitting on the same lunch table as me, let alone risk social suicide by dating me.

"And in the last year I've actively tried to cash-in my v-card and been rebuffed at every turn. I've hunted high and low. No-one wants a piece of this fine ass."

"Maybe someone you already know? Nearer than you think?"

"Aw man, you're mocking me now. Nope, there's no interest out there. Neither from the girls I know, nor the guys – just ask Danny. Or Spence the stoic – some might say _surly_ – barista (not good when you rely on tips to make up your basic wage); and Emiliano, the cranky, over-muscled barman at Jungle; and then Andreas – who was built like a superhero, fyi – from the Wildlife Service, well, no, he's from Norway actually, on some kind of ecological exchange program, but…"

Derek was giving him that 'you're an idiot' scowl that he'd practised to perfection on Stiles but never seemed to grace anyone else with, so Stiles shrugged and struggled back to the topic at hand.

"So anyways, there's not been a hint of any interest in me, if you don't count Susie with the retainer in second grade, and she's in a committed relationship with Jemima Padgett whose dad owns the timber yard on tenth and Osbourne.

"I'm hardly going to be mobbed by potential hook-ups between now and when the fairies come for me at dawn. I don't think there's a way out of this. I mean, you heard Deaton: 'Of their own freewill, without compulsion, deception, commerce or compassion'.

"So, they can't be forced – not that that was ever an option – or be tricked into it, or do it for payment, or out of sympathy for me. So no pity fucks even."

"Stiles, we know all this. There's no point in going over old ground.

"Focus on finding a solution. Finding a … lover. There'll be someone you haven't thought of…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Please Rip My Throat Out Chapter 2**

Stiles rolled his eyes. He really shouldn't have to explain this.

"As the Sheriff's son, I know how important it is to review the evidence. By examining the case I can get a feel for any weaknesses in the fairy prosecution, test the strength of their argument, and see where there may be grey areas or a technicality we can exploit.

"I need to go over this in case I've missed something, and you should listen to my analysis and see if anything jumps out at you."

It was the werewolf's turn to roll his eyes now, but he also nodded, so Stiles ploughed on.

"Right, well... Looking at the terms of this hex thing: 'Of their own freewill, without compulsion, deception, commerce or compassion'.

"So, the bearded lady said there are no restrictions on explaining the curse to a potential, uh, _friend with benefit_ per se. But if their knowledge of the forfeit I have to pay if I don't do the deed makes the other party feel 'obliged', through good manners or feeling that they have no choice, given the dire consequences, then I fall foul of the 'no compulsion, no compassion' bit.

"They have to want to do it, without my imminent demise being a motivator.

"But if I don't tell them about the curse, so that they aren't swayed into wanting to help me out like some sort of sexual Good Samaritan, then it'll likely trigger the 'no deception' clause.

"I mean, what if the only, or main, reason I have for sleeping with that person is the fairy sword hanging over my head. In the spirit of informed consent they would have a right to know that. So, by not being upfront about why I'm coming on to them, I'm being deceitful and nixing the whole shebang before we've even started.

"So, I'm damned if I tell them, damned if I don't.

"Commercial arrangements are out – which, apart from that excluding a likely way to save my figurative sorry ass, I'm actually relieved about – and Deaton says even asking you to bite me," Derek's eyebrows effected some kind of semaphore at that, "won't work because fairies are immune to werewolf powers. So they would still be able to torture and – one hopes, given said torture, – kill _Stiles the Werewolf_ with impunity.

"There's no logical way out of this, dude. Whichever way you look at it, I'm meeting my maker at daybreak.

"And oh my god, I'm gonna be ripped to shreds by fairy talons, and that's the _best_ _case_ scenario. Just because I engaged in a little witty banter with a bunch of arrogant _Homo floresiensis_ fail-clones who left their collective sense of humour and sense of proportion at home; assuming they had either to begin with, and—"

"Stiles, stop." Derek stepped nearer. "Your heart's racing and you're breathing too quickly. Relax. You'll give yourself a heart attack."

Stiles drew in a deep breath, intending to hold it for a beat and then exhale slowly, but before he could enact that plan, his mouth was working again. "Heart attack? Bring it on. Because that has to be a better end than the one those goddamn fairies have in store for me. Holy crap, I'm going to die!"

Derek was now in his personal space, his eyebrows drawn together, lips a narrow line. One fist wrapped around Stiles' bicep, while he raised his other hand as if to slap the teen across the face, as one would a hysterical trauma victim in a bad, medically inaccurate, melodrama.

"Stiles! Calm down."

"Do your … worst, big guy," Stiles said between gulps of breath. "I'm not surviving this without … someone to sex me up before … I can order from the MacDonald's breakfast menu. Seriously … I'm as good as dead so just put me … out of my misery now—hey! Wait… You! ... Oh my god, that's it! … Why didn't I think of this before? _You_ can do this—"

Derek shot back two paces, his hand flying from Stiles' arm as if it had suddenly become connected to the Beacon Hills power supply. Then everything about the werewolf stilled and he closed his eyes for a moment. The cyborg was back.

"Please, please Derek. I wouldn't ask, but you know what Deaton said about how the fairies intend to kill me. It's not gonna be pleasant – uh, not that any execution is ever pleasant but…I mean, what they have planned for me is gruesome with a capital ' _gross'_. So you gotta do this for me. Please."

Derek opened his mouth but no words emerged. His eyebrows were hiding out near his hairline and now his eyes were as round, and as big, as the wheels on his Camaro.

Suppressing a giggle at that thought, a giggle that just might turn into hysterics if he gave it voice, Stiles continued, "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't the only way. Please, Derek. Look on the bright side: I'll never ask you for anything else ever again."

Derek narrowed his eyes, his jaw tight but for a rhythmic twitch. Stiles bit his lip. This wasn't good. The werewolf was angry with him. Disappointed too. He had to make Derek see the sense of what he was saying.

He had just one shot at making a cogent argument here; there was no place for sentimentality if he was going to plead for a mercy killing.

He knew Derek's history; knew what had happened with Paige. He understood just how awful this would be for Derek. This was the worst thing he could ever ask of him.

But he was out of options.

"If there was another way…" he began, saddened but no longer ashamed by the pleading quality he could hear in his own voice. "If it was anything other than a painful lingering death awaiting me, I would never even consider dragging you into this.

"I know what I'm asking and, believe me, I really wish I didn't have to. But you are the only one I can ask, Derek. The only one I trust enough to ask."

"Trust? You trust me?" Derek's voice was so low that Stiles wondered if he ought to remind the guy that he wasn't blessed with werewolf hearing.

"Yeah, I trust you. Of course I do. After everything we've been through together? Who else would I trust to do this? But I know this isn't an easy thing to ask of you. Not after everything that's happened. I'm sorry to add to that. Truly. But you have to believe me when I say that I want this."

"You do? Doesn't sound like it." The expression on Derek's face dropped away leaving that 'blank canvas' look of his that Stiles really hated. He had the sudden urge to punch the werewolf just to see an emotion back.

"Of course I want this. How could you ask? I need you to do this for me, Derek. I _want_ you to do this for me.

"But Derek, _you_ have to be okay with this too. You must never doubt that it was the right thing to do. No regrets. No second guessing, what ifs or misgivings. None of that self-doubt you excel at. 'Cause, man, I gotta tell you, you wear guilt like a homeless guy wears dirt.

"So no guilt, no regrets here. Okay? You need to remember that this is right. It's what I want and you have to believe that. I couldn't bear the thought of you coming to regret this."

At some point, either Derek or Stiles himself – he really wasn't sure – had moved closer again, so that now Stiles could feel the heat radiating from the werewolf.

Derek's features were still closed off but he was staring with an intensity that had Stiles' flesh crawling. He wondered if there was something in his eye that he couldn't feel. A supernatural mote, perhaps. Wouldn't that just be the rancid frosting on the mouldy cake.

"I... I would never regret… Why would you even think…? I couldn't ever…"

"I know you, Derek. You over-think things and have a tendency to self-blame that medieval self-scourging masochists would envy. So forgive me if I—wait… Does that mean you'll do it?"

"In a heartbeat. I… Yes, of course."

For a split second it looked as though Derek's lips had flicked up into a smile and it dampened Stiles' relief at Derek's agreement. The expression was so fleeting that Stiles might have concluded he had imagined it, but for the werewolf's softened features and satisfied tone.

"Wow, uh, okay. No need to sound so pleased though. But, uh, thanks. I'm really grateful. I know this isn't easy for you. That you don't really want to do this, but, honestly, as a Plan B, and in the absence of any Plan A, this is the only option left to me. So, yeah, thanks. Really, thank you."

"Why wouldn't I be pleased? And I do want to do this. I've wanted… Wait. _You_ don't really want to do this, do you?"

Squinting at the man in front of him as if that would sharpen his hearing, Stiles tried to glean some understanding from the werewolf's words, which might have spilled from Deaton's lips for all the sense they made.

"Well, yeah, like this is up there on the top of my list of favourite ways to pass the hours of darkness. You know, a close run thing with root canal work à la _Midnight Express_ and Saturday evening detention with Harris. Not only isn't it on my bucket list, it kinda is the bucket, so to speak.

"So no, of course, I don't want to do this. But I think we've already established that I don't have a choice here."

Derek snapped his body to stand straighter and crossed his arms, the hard, empty expression back, his voice icy when he spoke.

"I thought… I thought you wanted this. Wanted me to... It won't work if you don't want this. You know that. You have to want this."

"Jeez, Derek. Of course I don't want to die." Stiles threw up his hands and pushed past the werewolf back to the couch, where he flung himself into the corner seat again. "I don't have a death wish. I'm not pining for the fjords. Not looking to cash in my chips just yet, thank you all the same.

"But what I want, and what I can have are two mutually exclusive entities right now.

"So I'd rather die at your hands, than be tortured for days, months even – oh my god, it could be years 'cause I've got good genes, ADHD and alcoholism notwithstanding – so yeah, _years_ of torture by rabid fairies who think Jack the Ripper was a lily-livered humanitarian, if Deaton's to be believed. .

"Small wonder that, given the choice, I'd rather not become some weird parody of Dean Winchester in the pit. I'd much prefer to shuffle off this mortal coil quickly without the bladder-emptying terror or the protracted agony that's lying in wait for me, thank you very much."

"I… Who? What?"

And there it was: Derek was having second thoughts, Stiles just knew it. But given the guy's past experiences, he couldn't find it in him to force the issue. Even in the face of impending torture and death – undeserved and grossly disproportionate btw – he couldn't catch a break.

"D'you know what, Derek? Forget it. Just bring on the fairies."


	3. Chapter 3

**Please Rip My Throat Out Chapter _3_**

"Yeah, forget it, Derek. Forget we ever had this conversation.

"It was wrong of me to ask you – what with your history and all. I guess I just have to man-up – does that have sexist connotations if the person saying it is a guy? Huh, so yeah, I'll just have to tough it out.

"There's probably some sort of 'no assisted suicide' restriction in this deal anyway, like with the 'no turning into a werewolf' stipulation. The fairies could probably resurrect me to exact their punishment for taking the easy way out anyway, so… Yeah. Forget it."

"Assisted suicide."

Something in Derek's tone made Stiles look up at him. The werewolf's stance was rigid and there were no clues in his vacant expression, more robot than android now. Even his eyebrows were mute.

It was all shades of unnerving and in a day where 'unnerving' opened the pot, this raised it to a new personal record.

Stiles' desire to fold was never so strong.

"Uh, yeah. Assisted suicide. What … what would you call it?"

"You said _suicide_."

"Well, duh: suicide. But since I'm the very epitome of a coward, I'd rather not actually do the deed myself. Hence the 'assisted' bit. Suicide by proxy, if you will. Technically _murder_ , although I would argue that lack of _mens rea_ militates for manslaughter.

"Hmm, no. That's a tricky defence, because whilst there's an absence of ' _malice_ aforethought', it definitely is 'knowingly' bringing about death, so...

"No, I'll go with _justifiable homicide_ , because assisted suicide is classified as _felony murder_ under the Californian penal code."

"Stiles. Why are you talking about homicide." There was no question in Derek's voice, no query to be read from his stony features.

"Derek? Did we lose you there for a moment, buddy? I'm usually the one that loses the plot. Are you all right?"

"What… precisely… were you asking me to do?"

"I told you: forget it. The fairies will have some fancy anti-suicide hocus-pocus because, frankly, I wouldn't trust those spiteful sprites as far as I could throw Fluffy the Cerberus."

Derek rolled his shoulders as he appeared to check out the loft ceiling.

Stiles opened his mouth to … well, he wasn't quite sure, but he would have found _something_ to say; he invariably did. But before his larynx and tongue could start to shape a sound, Derek was crouching at his side, one hand on the arm of the couch.

"What did you want me to do?"

"Derek?"

"What did you want me to do?"

"It doesn't matter. Forget it. I'm sorry I asked—"

"What. Did. You. Want. Me. To do?"

The werewolf was staring again and Stiles swallowed reflexively before saying, his pitch a tad high, "Uh, kill me?"

Derek's eyebrows huddled before racing up field.

Stiles felt obliged to add, "I thought if you killed me, you know, ripped my throat out … with your teeth … well, then I'd be spared the pain and anguish the fairies are gonna inflict. Remember?"

Stiles shrugged, hoping to show that it was no big deal, because Derek seemed unduly rattled.

"Kill you."

"Look, I'm sorry I asked, all right. It was wrong of me to put you in that position. I know what you went through … you know, with Paige. And it can't have been easy with … uh, Peter, notwithstanding his mystical – and disturbing – recovery.

"So … sorry. I had no right to ask. And you were super supportive to offer to put me out of my misery. Above and beyond. Really. And duly noted.

"But, I guess a simple, uncomplicated death doesn't look like it's on the cards for me. I can't imagine the hirsute Queen Whatsherface of Fairyland is gonna let me out of this that easily.

"But I want you to know that it was really decent of you to offer to kill me. I really appreciate that, man. Thanks. Seriously. Means a lot."

"I offered to kill you?"

Okay, that was weird because Derek just used a question. Stiles wasn't liking this. Confusion never sat happily with him and confused was so _not_ how he wanted to spend his last night on earth.

"Yeah, dude. Don't you remember?"

"Stiles, I didn't offer to kill you."

"Sure you did. Have you had your memory wiped? Is this some kind if fae side-effect? Because you did volunteer to kill me— well, okay, it was me who asked you to 'please rip my throat out', and not in so many words,—but you agreed to do it. You were going to kill me quickly so I wouldn't have to suffer when the fairies came back to collect my virgin body at sunrise."

"I didn't offer to kill you."

"Oh man, the fairies have done a number on you because—"

"I offered to sleep with you."

"See, you _do_ rememb—huh, say again?"

"I offered to have sex with you."

"Wha… uh, what now…? Huh?"

"I offered to relieve you of your virginity. To save you. Not kill you."

"No, you… I… Huh?"

"Stiles, I offered to fuck you. To be fucked by you."

"Nooo. Nuh-uh. Not… no, no. _Kill_. Kill. I asked you to _kill_ me. You said yes. To _killing_ me."

Stiles had never been on a small fishing boat in the middle of a hurricane but he figured this must be what it felt like because he suddenly wasn't sure of the horizon.

"We were discussing finding someone who would have sex with you to get you out of the fairies' curse. You couldn't think of anyone at first, but then you asked if I would do it. I agreed."

Derek appeared calm and, well, bizarrely nonchalant for a man who, it now seemed, had just offered to, uh…

Maybe the assisted suicide plan had merit after all.

With a creak of leather, Derek pushed up from the arm of the couch and stood up. He drew in a noisy breath and his neck clicked as he threw his head back (presumably to check again that the ceiling was still there, because at this point Stiles wouldn't have been surprised if the loft was now roofed by clouds supporting a pantheon of capricious Greek gods).

Straightening, Derek stepped away and settled himself at the other end of the couch.

Out of the corner of his eye – yeah, he doubted he'd ever be able to look the man in the eye again – Stiles could see the werewolf bowed over, resting his head in his hands with his elbows braced on his knees.

The fishing boat had reached the becalmed waters in the eye of the storm and Stiles thought he ought to say something. He just didn't know what, and although that never usually stopped him from speaking, right at this moment words escaped him.

Strangely, it was Derek who broke the silence. "I'm sorry if my offer was inappropriate. Unwanted," he said without looking up from his knees.

"No… I, uh, no it wasn't. I just…"

"It's okay, I get it. You want someone else. Anyone else. Of course you do. You don't see me in that way. I just thought that—"

"No. I…I didn't realise. I thought you were agreeing to kill me. Not…" He waggled a hand. "Because you wouldn't want to… I mean you're a cool guy who can have the pick of … whoever. You have standards. I get that. And I know you're into girls not guys, and—"

"Gender isn't important."

"Uh, 'scuse me?"

"Werewolves don't have issues with gender. It makes no difference if a sexual partner is same-sex."

"Really? I thought… But you have a preference, right? I mean, with, uh, Paige and … Kate…"

"You never knew about Harvey," Derek said, sitting back, his eyes staring across the room and out into the gloom beyond the darkened windows.

"Harvey? The guy from 'Suits' or the six-foot-tall invisible rabbit?" At the sound of a huff from other end of the couch, he added, "What? I'm talking to a werewolf but I can't consider the possibility of Pookas?"

"Right. My bad. Of course, I dated a Pooka." Another huff prefaced, "Harvey was my … significant other. He was an intern at Laura's law firm in Manhattan."

"Oh my god, for real? You're not punking me?"

Stiles risked looking across and met unflinching green eyes. (He did the flinching for the both of them.)

"Of course I'm punking you. Because I'm known for my childish sense of humour, puckish ways, and love of practical jokes in the face of life-or-death predicaments. Idiot." Derek looked away. "Yes. I dated Harvey. We lived together for a little over a year. He was a good guy. Sharp intellect. Laconic wit. Protective of his friends. Passionate about justice for all.

"Too passionate as it turned out. Ultimately, he spent too much time at the office. I couldn't compete with US jurisprudence. It was over between us before Laura came back to Beacon Hills."

"Uh, sorry. Wow, I didn't know. I didn't know _that_ about _you_. Or about werewolves. Oh, is it the same for all werewolves? The gender thing."

"For all born wolves. Bitten wolves rarely change their human orientation, though it does happen. But for born werewolves? We don't see gender as relevant in any aspect of life, including sex."

"Why?" And perhaps he shouldn't ask but he'd always been curious and tonight is his last opportunity to indulge, so sue him.

Besides, if he didn't ask about this, he'd be asking about Harvey and he really didn't want to piss off Derek any more than he already had.

"My dad explained it to me as not needing sex for procreation. Like all mammals, our species _can_ breed sexually, but we don't _have_ to. We can ensure our survival via the bite. So in biological terms, it removes the imperative to seek out only those mates with whom we can produce offspring."

"Because you can produce 'offspring' with the bite?" Stiles shifted in his seat to air-quote facing Derek.

"Basically."

"So where do genetics come into this. Because the bite doesn't ensure your genetic code is passed to the next generation, like with a baby. I would think that would be important in terms of species survival. So how—"

"Is this relevant? Don't you have a more pressing issue to deal with?"

"Oh. Yeah, guess so." Stiles shrugged and rubbed a prickle under his skin at the back of his neck.

Derek was looking blankly again, eyebrows perfectly neutral, as he asked, "So, now that you know that I wasn't offering to assist your suicide...?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Please Rip My Throat Out Chapter 4**

 _A/N: Sorry, sorry, sorry. I've let the feels get away from me, idek._

 _Happy Labor Day to everyone in the US. Hope you're having fun. Special greetings to anyone who has to work today.  
_

* * *

"Jeez, man. I dunno," Stiles said, hardly believing his life had come to this. "As much as I'm super-appreciative of your offer… This doesn't feel, uh… It won't solve… I mean, I'm grateful and all. But it won't work. You get that right?"

He pulled at his ear and imagined the heat from his face could turn Alaska tropical. He hoped Derek would see the disappointment and regret in his features, because he really didn't feel up to an explanation; there was only so much humiliation he could take in one day.

The down-turned corners of Derek's pinched lips and the v-formation of his eyebrows suggested a night-time raid on an enemy gun emplacement; Stiles braced for strafing, without understanding why he was being targeted. An underground bunker opening at his feet right now would be awesome.

"I get that you don't want to be intimate with me, Stiles. That you find the idea so … abhorrent. But in the absence of someone else—"

"Wait, no. Abhorrent? Are you kidding me? It's not that—"

"I understand. You don't have to explain. I will … help you. To die. If that's what you truly want. If you don't think you can bring yourself to … live with the solution I offer – offered without expectations or further consequences – then... I will 'assist' your suicide. If that's really what you've decided."

And… _what_ just happened there?

Stiles prided himself on being quick-witted, but this conversation was getting away from him faster than Scott on a date.

"Look dude, forget the dying for a sec, okay. About the, uh, sex bit. I don't want you thinking that I don't want to, you know… do _that_ with you. Or that I don't really appreciate your offer. I mean, it's super nice of you to offer. Really. Bill and Melinda Gates level philanthropy and, you know, in different circumstances, well, uh…

"But we both know the rules here, Derek, and pity fucks don't qualify."

"Pity fucks?"

One of Derek's eyebrows was now scowling in anger, while the other was raised in a questioning sort of challenge, so Stiles hurried to explain himself, because apparently his humiliation wasn't complete.

"Well, uh, of course. You're trying to save my life here. You know, out of sympathy and kindness. And that's mega, dude. Really. Thanks.

"But that amounts to sex out of compassion which the fairy rules forbid.

"You wouldn't be in this situation, needing to, uh, help me out, if I didn't have a death sentence hanging over me. That right there is you being coerced and your freewill being compromised. You know, you not wanting to, uh… with me, but feeling you have to because of the fatal outcome if you don't.

"But it's okay, I get it. And yeah, thanks. I mean it. I appreciate the thought, dude."

"I'm not a dude, and I don't do pity fucks."

"Uh, okay. Good to know. Admirable. I've certainly noted that. Yep, awesome."

"Stiles. I mean, you and me. It wouldn't be out of pity. I do want to help you out from under the fairy curse. But that would not be my only, or prime, motivation."

"Huh?"

"I want to do this."

"Huh?" Stiles so needed some sub-titles here because Derek's eyebrows were on silent running.

"Fine, I'll spell it out: Stiles, I want to have sex with you."

"Wha? No. Huh?"

The eye of the hurricane had passed now, and that fishing boat was bobbing like an apple at a frat party on Halloween.

Stiles just hoped he didn't throw up, because that never made a good impression on a potential sexual partner (as any number of students at Lydia's spring barbecue could attest. And, holy hell, whose idea was it to bring the Slivovitz?).

"I've wanted to have sex – no, to have a relationship – with you, Stiles, for a long time.

"But you deserved better. Not a werewolf. Not someone who fails at everything he touches. Not someone who gets everyone close to him killed.

"I couldn't risk that. Couldn't be the right person for you. So I never said or did anything about my attraction to you."

"Attraction?" Stiles was reeling. That damn boat was about to go down with all hands.

"Now… the situation is different," Derek continued, as if reading from a technical manual. "The stakes are the very highest. I have to reconsider. Re-prioritise.

"I tried to ensure your happiness by giving you a chance at an ordinary, non-supernatural future. Now I need to preserve your life so that you can have _any_ sort of future.

"Of course, I won't expect to be part of that future afterwards. You wouldn't want that and deserve better. This doesn't change the fact that you should have a shot at a normal life.

"For your sake I wish things were different. For my own sake?" Derek shrugged his eyebrows, "I can admit to being a selfish man.

"So, yes, I'm sorry – if unsurprised – that you pissed off Queen Ambroisina and her entire entourage with your smart mouth. But I can't help but think of ways to repay that smart mouth of yours. Is that wrong of me?"

"I, uh, I. Oh."

"If I've misread this, Stiles… If you really aren't interested... If you were just letting me down gently. Just thanking me for my willingness to do whatever is needed to break this curse…" Derek inspected the leather of the upholstery next to him. "If you were only being polite; acknowledging my intent without implying your wish to…" He looked up and captured Stiles' gaze, "If I have misinterpreted your obvious and perpetual arousal around me… Then you need to tell me now so we can find someone else."

"You knew. About…" Stiles flipped his fingers back and forth between the two of them.

"You remember I'm a werewolf? With heightened senses? Smell, hearing, taste…"

"Taste?"

"Smell and taste are linked. Pheromones are pungent."

"Ew. Okay, okay. Yeah, this I know. But Scott said that all teenagers, uh… That pheromones are like our default setting?"

Derek nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up a fraction. It was only a tiny flicker but Stiles felt elated; as though someone had just launched a lifeboat.

"There's always a background aura. But there are times when your levels … spiked."

"Of course they did! My life, ladies and gentlemen! Oh my god, as if I haven't been mortified enough for one lifetime. Goddamn fairies. I'm suing Disney, I swear. Or at least, I would if I wasn't gonna die before attorney office opening hours." Even as he spoke the words, Stiles wasn't sure if he wholly believed that now, not with rescue so tantalisingly within reach.

"You're not going to die." Derek's delivery was monotone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyes a bright sage.

"But, uh… Oh crap. This isn't going to work."

Stiles so wanted to believe a US Coastguard cutter was cresting the waves, but bitter experience had taught him that it was more likely to be pirates, or a mirage induced by drinking salt-water after days clinging to flotsam. Had he mentioned how much his life sucked?

"I've told you, Stiles, I don't do pity fucks. I want to fuck — no, I want to make love with you. You, Stiles. No coercion, deception, commerce or compassion. Just my passion and my freewill; my _desire_ to do this.

"But you have to want this as much as I do, Stiles. You know the terms of the curse. Your pheromones tell me there's an … attraction. But is there something more? Because there is for me.

"Stiles, you have to _want_ me. Do you? I'm a werewolf and you know my history, my failures. Would you want to do this even if you weren't under a fairy curse?"

"Are you crazy?" Now Stiles had clambered onto the rescue vessel and found his sea legs. Derek needed to hear this. "Of course I want to. With you. Only you, in point of fact. Yeah, no-one else. Just you.

"I've wanted this for… Well, since forever. I mean, I'm not blind and you're … hot. Like 'the lava lake under Yellowstone' hot.

"So, yeah, since forever. Although, that time you saved me from Isaac, his first full moon? Yeah, good, uh, memories … private memories, if you get my drift.

"See, I kind of like that you're a werewolf – well, except for the embarrassing pheromone sniffing – and it's not the failing at shit that matters, it's that you try. You keep trying.

"And actually you don't so much fail as have shitty luck, and the misfortune to run into some real douchebag humans, so…

"Yeah, some epically unfair, heart-breaking things have happened to you, and I have a little experience of that, oh not to the same degree, but, you know, I get it.

"But you fight back. I have an idea how hard that must be. But you still keep trying to do the right thing.

"Maybe you want to come across as the _big bad_ , what with the leather and the scowl and the threats—oh, it's a good look on you so don't stop. But that isn't really you – or not the whole you, anyway.

"You saved Erica and Boyd and Isaac. You noticed what crap they were going through when no-one else did. I didn't. My dad didn't, well, not with enough proof to do anything about Mr Lahey.

"But you weren't back in Beacon Hills two minutes and you noticed. And did something about it. You didn't have to. I kind of like that about you.

"See, you didn't offer the bite to the jocks; turned Jackson away when he came knocking at your door asking. You could have made your pack from the entire cheerleading team. But you bit people who needed your help instead.

"And you put yourself in harm's way to protect people. To protect me. You wouldn't have been paralysed by the kanima at the pool if you hadn't tried to warn me. To get me out of there.

"The kanima wasn't even your problem. You could have walked away. You didn't.

"I mean, you act like you don't care. But that's just, uh, window dressing. The real deal is inside. And it's worth so much more.

"So, yeah, I know all about you already. And I really like what I know. I like you. A lot. More than a lot. I _like_ , like you. So, yeah, uh, I do, you know, want to. With you. Have done for a really long time.

"Except this can't be real. I'm dreaming and when I wake up I'll have to kill myself because none of this is real and it's never going to happen."

* * *

A/N: One more chapter, friends. Thank you for your kind reviews and faves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Please Rip My Throat Out Chapter 5**

 _A/N: Final chapter. Thanks for sticking with._

* * *

"It's real. I'd like it to happen." Derek's voice was hardly more than a deep rumble.

Stiles swallowed and shifted awkwardly in his seat. His body may believe Derek's words, but his brain was having a hard time getting with the programme.

"You'd like …? With me? Derek, you can't mean that. Why would you be interested in me? I'm no-one special and you're… well, have you looked in the mirror lately?"

Derek sat up straighter and turned until he was facing Stiles, his back against the couch armrest, one leg, knee bent, propped up on the seat.

"Stiles, I know you're not so shallow as to be swayed by surface irrelevancies and genetic accident. A pretty wrapping can hide an ugly package." He didn't need to say, 'Kate' for Stiles to hear the reference clearly. "I think now we both see further than the ribbons and bows.

"I see you, Stiles, all of you; the pretty wrapping and the beauty inside. And I've always liked what I've seen. Been irritated and exasperated often. Infuriated sometimes. But always attracted to you. Always wanted you."

Eyes fixed steadfastly on the space on the couch between them, body perfectly still, Stiles said quietly, "You never said. You threatened me. Often. But you never said anything, uh, nice."

"How could I say … anything? I'm a werewolf, I'm eight years older than you and you're only just staring out in life. I couldn't be … I _wouldn't_ be… Kate."

"Whoa, no. You couldn't ever be her. This isn't the same." Stiles was suddenly envious of Peter for his role in Kate's downfall, though it wasn't nearly payback enough for him.

"The age difference? And disparity of experience, Stiles? No, I couldn't have done that to you. It's only because of the fairies that I'm saying anything now.

"You needed to experience life on your own terms. Go to college, get a job, fall in love, have a chance to get away from Beacon Hills with all its supernatural problems. I couldn't interfere with that.

"But I wanted to. Wanted to tell you. Wanted to _have_ you. But you deserved normal. I can't give you that.

"And maybe I fooled myself into thinking that one day I might have a chance with you but… Well, I know my history. I had no real hopes.

"And this fairy hex? As awful as it is, god help me but my wolf rejoiced when Deaton explained the way to break it. And I know how selfish that sounds."

"I wish you'd said something ... before," Stiles said, picking at the edge of a throw pillow. "But, yeah, I get why you didn't and, well, thanks, I guess.

"And just so you know, _normal_ is overrated in my book. Besides, my best friend is always gonna be a werewolf. And that's always gonna be down to me. My fault.

"You'd think I'd learn from that, but no. I think I'm always gonna stick my nose into stuff that may just get it bitten off. Queen Furry Fairy being a case in point.

" _Normal_ doesn't look like being in my future – assuming I have one – any more than a lottery win – and I don't buy lottery tickets on principle.

"Honestly, for all my muggle body," he wafted a hand in front of him, "I've no interest in 'normal'." He flexed bunnies' ears fingers and shrugged.

"And Derek, you have to know that I've had a serious crush on you since you found me and Scott trespassing on your land. Uh, sorry about that, btw. And the other stuff we – I did. Yeah, sorry.

"Anyway, I've kind of always liked you, since right back then. I know now that the pheromones gave the game away lust-wise, but there's so much more to this than just teenage hormones. Because I see beyond the leather and the scruff. And the moment that happened, well, that was kind of it; there was never going to be anyone else for me.

"I just didn't think it could ever be anything but one-sided. I mean, I kinda have a history in the unrequited department. And aiming out of my league. I knew nothing could ever come of it. I'd have to live with that. I'd accepted it. I mean, I'm not exactly a catch..."

"You should have more faith in yourself," Derek's voice was deep and low. "You always sell yourself short. Why do you do that?"

Stiles shrugged again, and was about to justify his contention – and he could, he had years of awkward and blameworthy anecdotes, just ask his dad – but the werewolf was already speaking.

"You said earlier that you think you're a coward. It felt like a physical blow to hear you say that because it's so wrong. So very wrong.

"I can't think of anyone braver than you, Stiles, human or wolf. Nor more loyal and resourceful. There's no-one I'd rather have on my side. No-one I trust more. No-one's opinion I respect more."

Wow! Stiles was staring at the werewolf, clenching his jaw, biting down on his lip to stop his mouth from hanging open unappealingly and, possibly, to intercept a smile which might just morph into the sort of grin that would make him look all kinds of crazy.

"And you also said," Derek continued, glancing at Stiles' mouth, "that you lack sex appeal. How could you think that? Even from a distance you arouse me like no other lover ever has. Or ever could.

"Others see it too. Allison sees it. That's why she didn't intercede with her grandfather on your behalf, I think. She's not surprised that anyone would find you attractive. Just angry that it was me and that I might do something about it. She was punishing you to get at me, I think.

"And Matt saw it. Saw how good we looked together. How good you looked. That night at the station he guessed I had feelings for you. And he didn't question it. He understood it, accepted it. Saw the obvious: that you are handsome and intelligent and how could I, or anyone, not want to be with you?"

Was light-headedness a symptom of the fairy curse? Stiles let his gaze flicker quickly over the werewolf, trying to find someplace for his eyes to rest that wouldn't add to the flush he could feel burning up from his neck to engulf his already over-warm face.

"I could list all the intellectual qualities and character traits I admire in you, Stiles, all the physical beauty that makes me ache for you. But words aren't really my strong suit."

"Nope?" Stiles managed, as he gulped in oxygen, stunned by the number of Derek's words _almost_ as much as by their content, "but uh, you're doing just fine. Oh, unless… Unless this is a joke?"

"A joke? Really? Because you think joking at this point would be appropriate?" The werewolf shook his head, but there was a small smile gracing his features. "No, Stiles. I'm as serious as a fairy curse.

"But, like I said, I'm not good with words." Derek's voice was doing that rumbling thing again that was causing something in Stiles to do back-flips. "I would prefer to show you how I feel. Would you let me?"

"Let you?" Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face. "Oh my god, I've, uh, fantasized about you… about…" he jiggled his hand, "for so long. Wanted you for the longest… So … yeah… But, Derek, you don't really mean this. You can't…"

And then Derek was pressed against his side, pushing him back into the cushions.

Tracing a finger along the curve of Stiles' jaw, Derek murmured, "I'd like to kiss you."

Stiles made a tiny nod to indicate his absolute unwavering willingness and then there were lips, Derek Hale's lips, against his own, and a tongue, and there were hands, and … oh ...

* * *

 **Eight hours later**

When Queen Ambroisina sat down at her breakfast table the next morning she allowed herself a tiny smile. She kept it stately, suppressing the broad grin that was threatening to split her beard in two; she had a duty to maintain royal decorum after all.

A cup of acorn tea had just been set in front of her when her adviser, Lord Hedgemere, appeared at her elbow, all starched green spider-silk, with his frizzy hair trying to dislodge his bark vizier's skullcap.

"Yesterday's endeavours were not in vain then, your Highness?"

"No, quite the contrary," Ambroisina answered as she reached for the honey. "I think things went very well, don't you?"

"Your expert manipulation has bought the desired effect, my Queen." Hedgemere bent slightly at the waist in his customary stiff fashion; a token bow to show deference without lowering his head which would undoubtedly unseat his cap.

"It does seem so," Ambroisina said, concentrating on her memories of the night before, so as not to become distracted by the teetering bark hat balanced precariously on the bushy head of her most trusted counsellor. "I found the repartee rather diverting. Of course, I didn't wish to become involved, but what choice did I have?"

"Quite. Remarkable obliviousness. On both sides."

"So you see why it was necessary to intervene. Oh, and Hedgemere, send that quack, Deaton, a vial of pollen in thanks – the standard enchantment package – and tell him I owe him. He played his part well."

"Overplayed, I think, my Queen. But I will arrange things as you say." He effected his little half-bow again. "And our border?"

"Our boundary with the Hale estate is secure, or soon will be, thanks to Master Stilinski."

"He is a formidable young man. Astute for his age."

"Yes, that he is, his lack of personal awareness notwithstanding. Yes, surprising wisdom and courage in a human, and not yet out of his second decade. Remarkable. And he is Hale's perfect match. They balance and complement one another so well. We did good work yesterday, Hedgemere, good work.

"Between the two of them, the Hale estate will be bought back to its former glory. And then surpass it. They will keep the Hale lands free of other supernatural forces and the entrance to our realm will be forever protected.

"An excellent outcome for generations of your people, my Queen." Another demi-bow. The cap dipped drunkenly towards an ear. "You will be venerated for your foresight and skilful accomplishment."

Ambroisina smiled broadly, nodding, as she stirred more honey into her tea.

"Hedgemere, do you understand how very fortunate we are to be living in these times?

"This is something to tell your great-great-great grandchildren: We have witnessed – had a hand in bringing about, no less – the foundation of the Hale-Stilinski dynasty."

~ FIN ~


End file.
